Ashes to the Wind
by ferain1832
Summary: One of Enjolras's lieutenants can admire, love and venerate their leader as much as another. A look at Combeferre, a sudden meeting with an extraordinary young man and a life forever changed.


Most of the Friends of the ABC had met Enjolras when he was already a leader. Their first interaction with him must have been to do with the revolution, their beliefs, the poor. Their first instinct was to accept him as leader, only then to love him as a friend.

For Combeferre, the order was reversed. The fateful meeting had happened right beside his house. Seeing the angelically beautiful young man, seeming no older than seventeen, sent sprawling onto the pavement by a cart, his right sleeve splattered with blood, Combeferre could have hardly known that this was his first meeting with his future leader and most dearly beloved friend.

He took him up to his apartment, of course, treating his wound as he would any other. Yet something in the young man's bright blue eyes haunted Combeferre long after he was gone, something wild and unearthly, something fierce and different and pure.

That same day, Combeferre was making inquiries among his friends about a first-year law student named Enjolras, determined to catch another glimpse of this strange young man that so cryptically appeared and disappeared in his life.

He had found him, three days later, lodging in the dirt poor Saint-Jacques area. He gained admittance on the basis of wanting to check his wound which thankfully was healing well.

In the dreary, grim attic room the young man's beauty shone like a rose among weeds. Combeferre cast his eyes around the rooms and was surprised to see expensive-looking books in piles on the table and a perfectly new jacket hanging on the chair.

"I assumed you were in straitened circumstances, _monsieur,_" he said, knowing perfectly well that his question was unwarranted but desperately wanting to find out more about this impenetrable Enjolras.

"I am," the young man said simply, then fixed his eyes on Combeferre as if he was assessing his trustworthiness. "I fell out with my father," he suddenly continued. "We had an argument and he will give me no more money unless I change my views. Naturally, I will not.

"What sort of argument?"

"A political one."

It came as no surprise. "What are you in favour of?" Combeferre inquired cautiously.

"I am in favour of the people," Enjolras said, his eyes glinting with a shade of steel, "and against lies and excuses and blindness."

From that moment onwards it became quite obvious to Combeferre that he would not let the young man once again disappear into the Parisian mud. Never in his life had he met someone who spoke with such strength, such honesty and bluntness; never before had he seen such a young, fragile man in whose eyes there was as much maturity as he had lived for a thousand years and as much innocence as if he had been born today.

That same day Combeferre, normally careful and reticent, offered Enjolras to share his apartment. Enjolras looked surprised, fixed once more that searching glance onto him, then nodded, his eyes speaking the _thank you _that he did not say out loud.

With every new dawn that gleamed through the window of Combeferre's apartment, he discovered more of his new friend. With every word, the cryptic and unearthly Enjolras stepped aside, revealing charm and humour and gentleness that he would not have imagined him capable of.

Combeferre took care of him as he would of a brother. He offered him money to pay for university fees and when Enjolras refused, he helped him find work as a tutor and listened patiently to his sighs over bourgeois children that did not understand the importance of education. He reminded him gently of the existence of food, noticing early on that Enjolras was liable to put revolutionary problems ahead of his own wellbeing. He was concerned with the sharpness of his beliefs and poured his heart and soul into pushing him towards a theory that was less blinding and more breathable.

In reward, he wanted nothing more than Enjolras remaining beside him, allowing himself to be both a target of distant awe and intimate fondness.

Sometimes, late at night, when Enjolras lay fast asleep and Combeferre was still finishing his work, a strange wave of sadness would come over him. The apartment was small, originally meant as a bedroom and a living room, and Enjolras had insisted that a _chaise longue_ beside Combeferre's work table would suit his every need. So it was, then, that looking up from his Laennec or Bretonneau, he would see Enjolras, blossoming as he slept, looking every inch an angel making use of a stranger's bedroom on his way to vanquish evil.

The thought of it made him shiver because it was true. Looking at him as he was in that moment, it seemed impossible to think that this young man who seemed scarcely more than a child, with his blond curls and long eyelashes and rosy cheeks and pouting lips and chest rising and falling, that this angel of a man would give his last drop of blood fighting the evil in their world. There would be barricades and cannons and bayonets and death and more likely than not, one of these days they would destroy this unique flower and trample it underfoot, sweeping away Combeferre too as they went.

In the end, Combeferre had known it all along. For better or for worse, ever since he first laid eyes on Enjolras, his destiny became to stand beside him. Like a child meeting the fairies, forever marked apart by what he saw, he could not have gone back to life as it was before Enjolras.

When the time came and the better changed into the worst, to lay down his body beside Enjolras was the least he could do.


End file.
